


Once Open the Books

by summerstorm



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, F/M, Plot What Plot, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-07
Updated: 2011-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alaric makes an offhand remark about Bonnie's affinity for jeans, and Bonnie has trouble getting it out of her head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Open the Books

**Author's Note:**

> Ostensibly for the 'teasing' square on my kink-bingo card, but it contains a whole lot of other kinks as well, most notably exhibitionism. This is very much idfic, and — I have two WsIP that don't exploit the teacher/student aspect of the pairing, but this is not one of them.

Bonnie's so busy trying to squirm out of her pants she doesn't hear Alaric at first.

"What?" she mutters, too distracted to enunciate.

Alaric looks up this time, licking his lips, his hands stilling on her thighs. He looks at her for a second, and when he speaks it sounds like he's not repeating what he said before, which would bother her if she weren't too distracted to care. "Don't you own any skirts?"

"That's a weird question," Bonnie says, slow, because it is. There's an implication there that makes her tilt her head defensively; it wouldn't be the first time someone's accused her of not being, like, feminine enough or whatever, which is ridiculous even as a concept, accusing a girl of that.

Alaric doesn't seem to take notice of her confrontational stance; he drags her jeans, with some difficulty, off her legs, and says, "These are damn hard to get off you."

"Oh." Bonnie purses her lips. "Okay. I guess that's a valid suggestion, then," she says, but by then her pants are hanging off the foot of his bed and he's leaving a trail of soft bites up her inner thigh and he probably doesn't even hear her.

*

It's been six hours.

She doesn't know what got into her this morning. She's worn skirts before, dresses; there's a reason she has a number of them in her closet. She wears them relatively often. Pants are easier, more comfortable, she has more of them, but before now, she's pretty sure she'd never thought twice about putting on skirts. She'd never thought _hey, this is unusual_ or anything.

It's all she could think about today. Maybe it's—normal, normal because she's never dated anyone for that long, and she never even slept with anyone she dated before Ric, so it never occurred to her to think of clothes in that context. Showing off her legs is the only thing she's deliberately done in that regard, but now of course she's thinking about it, about how much easier it would be to touch her like this. How much easier it is—before she left this morning, in her room, she put a hand on her knee and dragged it upwards, between her thighs, just to see, and it was—it was interesting. Her panties were still in the way, but it's not like it would have taken much to take them off or push them aside. They're pretty light, and they stretch.

She really had no reason to take them off. For one thing, it's not like she randomly decided she was going to have sex in the middle of the morning or anything. She hasn't lost her mind. School is school, and getting good grades is important to her, and that's not even considering the kind of trouble she could get in if someone saw her doing anything at all with Alaric anywhere, let alone on school grounds.

She just thought—she thought she'd do it for herself. Just for fun. Not to turn herself on or anything, but because it felt a little reckless, a little rebellious. So she waited until the restroom was clear to stuff them in a hidden pocket in her bag, and walked out. She's careful in every other area of her life, and it wouldn't be weird if she didn't tell anyone. Which she had no reason to. She could tell Alaric, later, when they were somewhere safe.

She even thought she might not even see him at school, actually, which is why she regrets it all of a sudden when Elena comes up to her and says, "Oh, Ric told me he was going to be at the library working on that thing about the—wolves, if you want to help out."

So that's where Bonnie is now, sitting next to Alaric in the local library, books scattered all over their table, wearing a skirt with nothing underneath.

Every time she thinks about it, she presses her legs closer together, which should be impossible by now considering she's been thinking about it since she got here. Before she got here. It's pretty hard to concentrate on spells when eighty percent of her brain is busy _freaking out_. What if he notices? She doesn't know how he could unless he touched her, which—terrible road to go down. No. She can make it through this. They're looking for something pretty specific, so it shouldn't take that long to find out if there's any info at all on it in all of the local mythology section that they haven't already gone through separately. So they can do that, and then she can go home, and put on panties, and write this whole day off as an experience she shouldn't have ever again.

"Bonnie," Alaric says. It sounds like he's been calling her name for a while now.

Bonnie feels herself flush. "Sorry."

"Are you all right? You look kind of flustered." He lifts a hand to her forehead, which is _fine_ , she's fine, and she tells him as much. He takes a look around before thumbing a few threads of hair back, and his hand ends up on her arm. He's still looking at her.

"I'm," she begins again, but actually, no: she's not fine. She's distracted. She's incredibly turned on, and she could miss something, and he's _touching_ her and her skin is burning pretty much everywhere from her neck down, and she needs to get a grip. This isn't her. She's composed, she's responsible. She doesn't make rash decisions to drag people's hands under her skirt.

She doesn't. She doesn't except, apparently, when she does.

Her lips press together as his fingers trail over her inner thigh, his eyebrows drawing a frown until she pulls his wrist higher, until he reaches hair.

"You wanted easier access, right?" she whispers, because that wasn't the point but it is, now that she's made it the point.

"Not like—" He gives a short, breathy laugh. "Like this." His hand's still between her legs, though, a shallow touch. She feels all these things at once—embarrassed, exhilarated, pleased that he's not judging her for this, or lecturing her on appropriate behavior in public, not that she thought he'd do that. She didn't think he'd touch her either, though. She didn't really think about what he'd do. He curses under his breath as he spreads her out, still soft, still careful. "How long have you been waiting to do this?"

"I haven't," she says. It's the truth. This is not what she was working toward, but—"Pretty much all day?" she amends, as matter-of-fact as she can manage when he's parting her folds with the edge of his hand and pushing a fingertip inside her. She rolls her hips into it, biting her lip to keep from sighing. He pulls back immediately—his hand, at least. His eyes are still trained on her face, and his mouth is a little open, a little dry.

"We need to finish this," he says, and she instantly feels less embarrassed, more in control of the situation. She bites back a smirk, but the corners of her lips curl up anyway. It's such a thrill when he gets like this—when she makes him like this. "Besides, someone could walk by," he adds, soft, almost like he's telling himself.

She nods, trying to convince herself not to say anything, and failing miserably. "It's not that risky," she hears herself say. "Is it? I mean, you can just take your hand back if you hear anything. That can be done fast."

Alaric looks like he wants desperately to agree with her. There's this intensity on his face, in his eyes when he glances at the edge of her skirt, and it doesn't bode well. For someone who hangs out with Damon Salvatore, Alaric can be frustratingly self-sacrificial and horrible at giving into what he wants. He puts his hand back on her knee, but it's just a second, and then he says, "Later," and goes back to the books.

She knows, and the thought surprises her, that she could push him. If she grabbed his wrist and dragged it back between her thighs, she knows with a solid certainty that he wouldn't pull back again. It's like he has some kind of two-strike rule when it comes to her: the first time she tries something he'll give her a chance to think it over, be responsible, and the second time he'll just give in and let it be on her head.

It's more than a little weird that she can apply this to—to sex, now, to sex with Alaric, but the thing is, that rule or whatever it is probably works _because_ she doesn't push it, because right now she's thinking about it but has no intention of doing anything that could mess things up.

"How early can we leave?" she says instead.

When he looks at her, he's licking his lips. "As soon as I figure out what's missing from the tranquilizer plans."

"What are you looking for exactly?" she asks, crossing her legs and squaring her shoulders. She can wait, and she can do so with some composure, and maybe even try to help. That's what she came here for in the first place. The new incentive to be done as quickly as possible doesn't hurt.

Alaric grits his teeth, taking the books in with his eyes. "I'm not sure, but it should be here. Probably in the old journals."

"Do _I_ know what you're looking for?" She bites her lip, and when he turns to her again, she can see the moment he realizes what she's suggesting.

He cocks his head. "Is that question for me or for you?"

She lifts a finger to urge him to stay quiet and breathes in deep, filling her lungs, looking at all the open books scattered over the library table. She thinks about wolves, about werewolves as people, out of control people who need to be hindered but not hurt, and when she raises her hands, two books jerk into the air, their spines crack, and they hit the table upside down with a soft thump. "There."

"You couldn't have done this when we got here?"

With a shrug, she says, "I didn't think of it."

Alaric picks up the books and finds what he needs almost immediately, which sends a shiver of anticipation through her. He takes a few notes and closes his notebook; when he's done, he looks at her with his eyebrows a little raised and god, if she could just—

"Sit down," Alaric says, his voice suddenly low and firm.

"What?"

Alaric takes in a breath. "Sit down."

She does, more out of surprise than anything else. She sits down. He's pushing his chair back, touching the edge of the table appraisingly. She frowns at him, but he doesn't even look at her before he crawls under the table, and suddenly there are hands on her knees, pushing them apart, and his mouth is on her before she knows to expect it. She jolts in her seat, hitting her shoulders on the sturdy wood of the tall library chair, and spreads her legs wider before grabbing one of the closed books, opening it before her so she can hide her face if—fuck—if she doesn't fall down first.

She clutches the floating arm of the chair and tries to stay upright when Alaric's doing his best to pull her right to the floor.

"Careful," she says quietly, and he groans, the sound vibrating against her clit, her skirt shifting up her waist when he moves.

She doesn't know how she manages to stay silent; fear, probably, and that she knows she can't alert anyone to this. That may turn her on more than she'd like to admit, but she's never been one to push situations until they unravel out of her control and she's not going to start now. So she keeps her vowels back, letting only breath come out of her mouth, soft even when it turns to panting, even when she—stupidly, stupidly—gives up on the cover of the book and drags her palm over his head instead.

Kneading at his neck, embarrassingly aware of the place her skirt ends and his hair begins, she whispers, "Please," once, and out comes the begging, _always_ the begging that pops out when she can't control it and all she can do is hiss _please, please, please_ over and over until her orgasm hits and knocks composure, if not sense, back into her.

*

After, they gather their things in silence, perfectly normal except for his hand on the small of her back.

In his car, he tosses everything into the backseat and touches her thigh before starting the engine, her skirt hiking up. She says, "You can stop touching me any time now," and he draws his hand back like it causes him pain to do so.

She's not—she's not trying to tease him, exactly, she's just—she's really turned on, and even the idea of doing this makes her a little crazy with need, so she does it, now, before he pulls out of the parking lot, before it can blindside him into an accident or something: she spreads her legs and toes off her right shoe, the one closest to the door, before pulling her foot up on the seat, knee bent up, her skirt stretching over her thigh for only seconds before dropping loosely around her hips.

"You look really unlike you like that," he says when he turns to her, but it's preceded by a sharp intake of breath and accompanied by a forced smile, like he's trying to make light of it, so she shrugs and smiles, feeling a little shy all of a sudden.

"Just trying new things," she says, and he pulls the car out and on the road.

During the drive to his apartment, she's pretty sure he actively avoids the rearview mirror, looking in the side-view instead, which she feels a little bad about, but it's not like Mystic Falls is brimming with activity this time of day. At red lights, she shifts, feeling her wetness spread; she feels self-conscious for about a second, when her skirt rides up and her bare ass touches the car seat, but she sticks to it; it seems like it'd be more embarrassing to change her mind now, and she doesn't want to anyway—she's so turned on she can feel herself pulse, and she wants more and she's gotten this far, she can—

Alaric lowers the driver's window and the breeze hits her like a truck, draws a long, low moan out of her. When the car moves again, it gives her goosebumps, so she lifts her other leg up, rubs her shins with her hands. She doesn't make a conscious decision to touch herself, but she can't help cupping herself, just a steady pressure of her palm, not wanting to get off but afraid she's going to come just like this if she doesn't calm down. She presses her legs together when he starts to park, quickly stretching her skirt down again, and for a moment she thinks he's not going to bother getting the research out of the backseat, but he does while she steps out.

As soon as the door to his apartment opens, everything he was carrying lands unceremoniously in an armchair and she's being dragged in by her skirt, the hem of it pressed back to front together between her legs, his knuckles brushing her pussy until he gets the door closed and kisses her so hard it goes to her head, his hand on her jaw, his other hand letting go of her skirt and wrapping her leg up around his thigh. He hauls her up then, straightening up, and carries her in until she can sit on the arm of his couch. She drops to her feet when he lets go and makes quick work of his belt, a suggestion more than any intention to get him naked herself, before deciding she hasn't milked this for all it's worth yet.

She walks away. She doesn't walk out, but she walks a little farther into the apartment, dragging her fingertips over the kitchen island until she's in the worst possible place—the most visible, the one with the most space around her. Then, she sets her palms firm on the surface, steps back and lifts her ass.

"What are you doing?" Alaric asks after her, his voice so rough she almost doesn't catch it.

"I'm exploiting this," Bonnie says. "You're the one who wanted me to wear skirts."

"Not like _that_ ," Alaric says, but she can hear his footsteps, his belt falling on the couch.

"So you _don't_ want to fuck me?" Bonnie says sweetly.

He groans in an exasperated way, the same way he does every time Bonnie forces him into a topic he's not comfortable with. She always knows what she's doing, and she's fairly sure she never sounds serious about them, but he responds the same way every time. "That's not what I mean," he says, walking over to her until he can settle his hands on her hips, drag her skirt higher.

"I just thought we could make this a little creepier," Bonnie says. "Since you won't bend me over your desk or anything."

Alaric laughs. "Do you want me to bend you over a desk?" he asks, like it's a ridiculous idea. Which it is, maybe, but that's not the point.

Bonnie breaks then; she can't act like she's not embarrassed about this. She's not that good. "I kind of do," she says in a small voice, and his grip becomes tighter, and in seconds her skirt is bundled around her waist and she hears a zipper go down and fuck, at this rate she's going to come before he's inside her. It's not even that she doesn't want to, not like she couldn't come again after that, but she wants to stretch this feeling, the anticipation so close to orgasm. She breathes in, out, looking around his apartment, trying to steady her hips, the nerves in her stomach. She's so distracted she squeaks when a hand touches her hip again, and then it vanishes and reappears in her hair like a suggestion, a request for her to look back, so she does and meets his mouth halfway, gasping a yes into his mouth when his cock pushes in.

"I think you're getting off on this more than I am," he murmurs against her earlobe when the pressure on her neck gets to be too much and she looks forward again.

"Maybe," she says in a whisper, biting her lip.

"But I—I would," he goes on, starting to move inside her, "I would do it. If it wasn't such a monumentally bad idea," and he snorts there, soft and airy, "I'd do it. I'd probably feel like an asshole the whole way through, but—"

Bonnie rocks her hips back and says, "What would you do?"

"Bend you over," he says, the words clipped, like he can't muster up the concentration to speak normally. "All those times you sat on my desk, the first few weeks—all I could think about was how easy—how easy it would be to take your pants off and eat you out."

She rolls her hips faster until he matches up the rhythm, until she can hold back a little, get steady on her feet again. "I might have let you," Bonnie says.

"You wouldn't have," Alaric says, completely missing the point. "If I had let myself try it, you would have stopped it."

She laughs a little, tight in her throat. It's true. It's different in her head—it would be a lie that she didn't think about it, about pushing things before they crossed that last line, but she wouldn't have. She knows better, and Alaric knows better, and she feels so hot right now; her skin is burning.

"You could have made me strip for you," Bonnie says now, hoping he gets the message now, the switch to purely hypothetical.

"Bonnie," he says, like a warning, like he's asking her to stop talking but doesn't really want her to.

"You could," Bonnie says. "I'd just—I'd stand in the middle of class and do it. I'd be so turned on doing that." The worst part is, she would; if she let herself do it, she would love it. "And then I could hide," she goes on, "before your next class, I could crawl under your desk and hide there, completely naked, my clothes in a drawer."

He buries his face in her neck, kissing along, whispering, "How far gone are you?"

Bonnie lets out a soft laugh. "To be telling you this? A lot."

"You're easier to handle when you haven't lost your filter," Alaric says, and bites at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, soft, just teeth scraping over skin.

"What you did, at the library," she says, her voice turning into a whine, so close, "I want to do it to you under your desk. I've thought about it so much." His breathing's hard now, loud below her ear, and his fingers are rough on her hips, pulling her back against him as he fucks her. She tries to keep going, "If I—if I sucked you off there—" but her voice breaks just before she comes, still rocking her hips, not stopping for a second. It helps her settle back into reality, a reality where what she did today is a wild anomaly and she's self-aware enough to not even be tempted to do anything in a classroom; it helps her settle back into this room where Alaric's arms are wrapped around her and it is another one of those things that manages to be comforting even when it shouldn't.

It takes him a couple more minutes to come, and when he does it's with a hoarse shout and his hands on the edge of the kitchen island. His breathing is so loud until he comes down from it, and Bonnie leans back against his chest as he slips out, and misses his presence when he walks around the counter to get rid of the condom. Bonnie sets her forearms on the surface and watches him, her legs sore but not sore enough to need to move them yet.

He reaches for her hand and fingers the stretch of skin between her thumb and forefinger before lifting his wrist to cup her jaw. She props herself up on his hand so she's close enough to kiss, a soft touch of lips, and she sighs when she stands back on her heels.

He's shaking his head as he thumbs at her jawline, considering, and then he says, "Never do that again. Not that it wasn't—you know, but—"

Bonnie laughs briefly, tired. "That's probably a good idea," she says, and shifts her weight to her feet, feeling her skirt settle down over her hips.


End file.
